strong urge and desire—to learn more about his need of her, to understand the true nature of what drove him to protect her. Halting, she faced him. Looked into his eyes. “Will you spend the day with me?”
He blinked, briefly searched her eyes as if to confirm the invitation, then reached for her. “Gladly.” He bent his head. “There isn’t anywhere I’d rather be.”
They were in a secluded walk, fully screened by thick bushes. She stepped into his arms, twined hers about his neck, and met his lips. Parting hers, she ardently welcomed him in, artfully teased.
Tempted, flagrantly taunted.
She knew what she wanted; so did he.
Within minutes, the reality was apparent; desire hummed through their veins, thrummed beneath their skins. Their mouths greedily, hungrily melded, sharing heat, fire, stoking their conflagration, reveling in it.
She pressed closer, arched against him; he shuddered and drew her closer still, molded her to him.
He broke from the kiss, laid a tracery of fiery kisses from temple to ear, ducked beneath to continue the line down the arched length of her throat. “The summerhouse is too risky.” His words were a trifle rushed, fractionally breathless. Infinitely persuasive. “Come back to the Manor with me. The staff might be shocked, but they’ll be discreet. They won’t talk… not about us.”
From his point of view, the matter was irrelevant; he intended to marry her, soon. More important and urgent was their mutual need for privacy.
Caro lifted weighted lids and looked at him. Moistened her lips, cleared her throat. “There’s somewhere I know where we can go.”
He forced his mind to think, but couldn’t imagine where…
She saw; the smile that curved her lips was essentially, fundamentally feminine. “Trust me.” Her eyes lit, almost mischievous. Drawing back from his embrace, she took his hand. “Come with me.”
It took him an instant to recognize the sultry invitation, his own seductive phrase given back to him, its potency multiplied a thousand times by the look in her eyes, by the spritelike way she turned and led him further along the path.
At no point did it occur to him to refuse.
She was a wood nymph leading him, a mere mortal, astray. He told her so and she laughed, the silvery sound drifting on the breeze— reminding him anew of his pledge to draw that magical sound from her more often.
Hand in hand, they descended through the gardens, eventually leaving the tended areas through a narrow gate in a hedge. Beyond lay a medley of meadow and wood, largely undisturbed by man. The path led underneath trees, then across open clearings where grasses encroached, reducing it at times to little more than a track.
Caro’s feet seemed to follow it instinctively; she neither looked for landmarks nor searched for the path but strolled on, glancing at the birds flitting through the trees, occasionally lifting her face to the sun.
In the middle of one clearing, he halted, drew her back to him. Into his arms. The house was some distance behind them; he bent his head and kissed her, long, deep, letting his real yearning have full sway—a yearning he was learning, day by day, possessed a greater depth and breadth than he’d imagined it ever could.
Finally raising his head, he watched her face, watched her lids flutter, then rise, revealing the silvery sheen of her eyes. He smiled. “Where are you taking me?” Lifting her hand, he brushed a kiss across her fingertips. “Where is your bower of unearthly bliss?”
She laughed, a joyous sound, but shook her head at him. “You won’t know of it—it’s a special place.” They started walking again; after a moment, she murmured, her voice soft, low, as magical as her laugh, “It is a bower of sorts.” She glanced up, fleetingly met his eyes. “A place apart from the world.” Smiling, she looked ahead.
He didn’t press for more; she clearly wanted to surprise him, show him… anticipation flared, steadily built as she led him deeper into the wooded reaches of her family’s property. She had spent her childhood here; she knew its grounds as well as he knew his own. He couldn’t, however, guess where she was making for; he wasn’t lost, but… “I’ve never been this way before.”
She glanced at him, smiled, then looked ahead. “Few people have. It’s a family secret.”
After twenty minutes of strolling, they crested a small rise; beyond, a grassy meadow rolled down to the banks of the stream, here swiftly rushing. The swoosh of the water’s gushing progress reached them; fine spray rose and swirled between the banks.
Caro halted; smiling, she waved ahead. “That’s where we’re going.” She glanced at him. “Where I’m taking you.”
On either side of the meadow, the woods marched down to the stream’s edge, framing a tiny cottage that stood on an island set in the middle of the widening stream. A narrow plank bridge arched over the rushing waters; the cottage was old, built of stone, but was clearly in excellent condition.
“Come on.” She tugged, and he obliging walked on at her side; his gaze remained riveted on the cottage.
“Whose is it?”
“It used to be my mother’s.” She caught his gaze as he glanced at her. “She was a painter, remember. She loved the light out here, and the sound of the stream rushing into the weir.”
“Weir?”
She pointed to the right; as they descended through the meadow, a huge body of water came into sight.
He got his bearings. “Geoffrey’s weir.”
Caro nodded.
He’d known of the weir’s existence, but had never had reason to come this way. The stream bubbled and boiled as it swept into the weir; even though it was summer and the flow far less than in winter, the island in the middle of the streambed forced the incoming water to split and rush past on either side.
Halting a yard from the bridge, he looked around. The stream banks were high, the water level at present much lower than that possible, yet even if the stream did overflow, as it would during a significant thaw, the island was higher than where they stood; much of the meadow flat would flood before the cottage’s foundations got wet.
The bridge was as narrow as it had appeared from a distance, just wide enough for one person. It arched over its span to the island; a single handrail was fixed along one side.
But it was the cottage itself that commanded his attention; it looked to be one large room with numerous windows. The door, shutters, and window frames were brightly painted; flowers nodded and bobbed about a small paved area before the front door.
The cottage was not only in excellent repair, it was in use—not deserted.
“It was originally built as a folly,” Caro said. Slipping her fingers from his, she stepped onto the bridge. “Rather more substantial than most, as it’s such a long way from the house and so isolated. Mama loved it here— well”—starting across the bridge, she waved at the weir—“you can imagine the play of light off and over the weir at sunrise, at sunset, during storms.”
“She came here at sunrise?” Michael followed her onto the bridge, wary at first, but it proved to be solid.
Caro glanced back. “Oh, yes.” She looked ahead. “This was her hideaway—her own special place.” Stepping onto the island, she spread her arms, lifted her head, whirled and faced him. “And now it’s mine.”
He grinned, caught her to him as he stepped off the bridge and backed her up the short path. “You weed the beds?”
She grinned back. “Not me. Mrs. Judson. She was Mama’s maid when Mama first came here—she used to keep the cottage and the garden perfect for Mama to use.” She glanced around, then turned out of his arms and reached for the doorknob. “After Mama died, the others were all grown and gone except for Geoffrey. He had no use for it, so I claimed it for my own.”
Setting the door wide, Caro walked through, then paused and looked back. Michael filled the doorway, his large, strong frame haloed by the sun. With his clothes thrown into shadow, he appeared timeless, paganly, elementally male. A shiver of awareness, of delicious anticipation, slithered down her nerves. Lifting her chin, she locked her eyes on his. “Other than Judson, who spends Friday afternoons here, no one comes here but me.”
It wasn’t Friday.
His lips curved; for one long moment, he studied her, then, his gaze unwavering, he stepped over the threshold, reached behind him, and closed the door.
